


scared of me

by peachsneakers



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Eating Disorders, Emetophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Purging, Self Harm, Slightly unsympathetic others, They get better though, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-11-25 17:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachsneakers/pseuds/peachsneakers
Summary: It was easy when they didn't care.





	1. breaking down

**Author's Note:**

> just a short m/c that's been kicking around in my drafts for a month, whoops

It was easy when they didn't care.

He could retreat to his room and trace their indifference into his wrists with a razor blade. He could refuse to eat for days at a time if he wanted. No one ever noticed.

Oh, Patton tried to coax him to dinner a time or two, but it was easy for Virgil to stir his food around his plate or plan how to best bring it all back up when he left the table. With the water running, it wasn't like anyone banged on the door or demanded to know what he was doing. And no one really bothered to spend time with him, anyway, so no one could see how thin he was becoming. (He was under no illusion on that front, he knew he would be considered thin.) His bulky hoodie hid the rest.

But then he tried to duck out and it turns out, Thomas needs his anxiety after all.

That doesn't mean they have to _like_ it, though. Especially Princey. He thought they had some kind of moment there, small as it was, but clearly Roman doesn't feel that way. He's gone right back to the nicknames and muttered asides about Virgil's purpose, like Virgil can't hear.

Like he doesn't care that Virgil can hear.

The others aren't much better, but they've taken to _touching_ him. Patton especially likes to brush his shoulder or arm, as if he doesn't know the burning his fingertips leave behind. Sometimes Logan will touch his hand or brush past him in the hallway, and it feels like he's choked with fire. Even Princey has taken to semi-friendly shoulder nudges in the vicinity of Patton, and that burns worst of all.

And now he's expected at meals. He's supposed to show up now, and if he doesn't, Patton will come and knock on his door, inquiring if he's all right. All Virgil can hear underlying it is _are you going to duck out again? Do we have to pretend we want you back again?_ It makes his stomach twist up in knots, but he always pastes a smile on his face, anyway.

"Are you not hungry?" Patton asks with a frown, watching Virgil push his pasta around his plate.

"Maybe a little," Virgil admits. "I guess I ate a big lunch." He stands up and retreats to his room, just in time to avoid hearing Patton's muttered words to the others.

"But you didn't _have_ lunch..."

Virgil locks himself in his room, his fingers trembling on the lock. His shoulders hitch as his breathing speeds up and he hits the floor with a thump, bowing his head and curling in on himself. Wild, blistering panic runs rampant through his thoughts, locking him in shuddering place as tears burn his eyes and stream down his cheeks.

_They don't care about you,_ his mind reminds him, and he agrees, he _knows_, but it won't shut up as it goes on, relentless. _They wish you were gone. They wish Thomas didn't need you. Why did you come back? Why didn't you stay gone? If you stayed in the subconscious, you'd fade away and maybe someone better would take your place. Someone _good_. Someone _worthy_ to be liked. Someone who's _nothing like you.

It takes several long, painful minutes but finally, the panic recedes enough for Virgil to lift his head, to uncurl himself like a hermit crab extending its legs from its shell. Self-loathing hits him like a freight train and he rushes to the bathroom, fingers scrabbling at the toilet lid, just in time to spew up everything he'd managed to tip down his throat. It hurts, like scraping past a raw wound, but he doesn't care as he retches again and again.

Finally, Virgil rests back on his heels, wiping his mouth with a swatch of toilet paper. His hair is sweaty, sticking to his forehead, and his legs wobble when he stands up, dropping the toilet lid and flushing. When he looks in the mirror, all he can see is a disaster. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, his cheeks are tear-stained, and the corners of his mouth are chapped. He attempts a smile, but it looks ghastly, and he drops it within moments.

The others must be preparing for their customary movie night, he thinks as he flops down on his bed, pulling a weighted blanket over himself and snagging his headphones. Patton _might_ extend an offer, just to be polite, but Virgil knows better than to accept. The others don't want him there, not really. He's just like a gloomy storm cloud, raining all over their happy proceedings.

And sometimes, well... Virgil puts his headphones on, turning his music on blast.

Sometimes not even Patton cares enough.


	2. something's not right

Patton knows that he isn't the most...well-educated, so to speak, on Anxiety. On Virgil. He doesn't know what food the other side prefers (although he knows that Virgil likes piping hot chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven). He doesn't know what calms Virgil down the best, besides the breathing exercise he taught everyone. He doesn't know his tells that something's wrong, because he's _always_ sarcastic and he's _always_ short with the others.

Nevertheless, as Patton stares down at another mostly full plate, he _knows_ that something is painfully, desperately wrong with Anxiety.

"Pat?" Roman asks. "Is something wrong?"

Lost in thought, Patton jumps when Roman's voice finally penetrates his mind. He pins a smile on his face, shaking his head.

"Of course not, kiddo!" He says. "Just thinking about movie night, that's all. I want to invite Virgil again."

"Old Doom and Gloom?" Roman scoffs, making a face. "You know he won't show up, Pat, why bother?"

"Perhaps that exact attitude is why he does not," Logan retorts, looking up from his book. "Why show up if he knows that he won't be welcome?"

"He's welcome," Roman argues, but Patton can see the shifty look in Roman's eyes and knows that isn't precisely true. They're all guilty of it, really. For so long, Virgil has played the villain. It is painfully easy to slip back into old, outdated modes of behavior. But Patton is determined not to do that this time. Or any other time. Virgil deserves better, even if nothing else is wrong. _But it is, it has to be-_

"He is welcome," Patton says firmly, and Roman knows that's the end of it. Patton rarely puts his foot down. He doesn't think that it's helpful. Not anymore. Not when the guilt of red and green still stains his hands, when purple and yellow drape the walls of his subconscious.

But when it comes to accepting Virgil, he'll always do it if he has to.

He climbs the stairs slowly after he's finished washing the dishes, putting off the inevitable. As he gets closer to Virgil's room, he can hear the unmistakable sounds of someone throwing up and his heart aches. Was dinner that gut-wrenching for Virgil then? He waits a few minutes, until he hears the bed groan under Virgil's weight, then raps firmly on the door. It takes a few minutes, but Virgil finally shuffles over to the door and wrenches it open, leaning against the jamb. His eyes are bloodshot.

"Are you okay, Virge?" Patton asks, voice oozing concern. Virgil stiffens.

"Fine," he bites out.

"I wanted to invite you to movie night," Patton offers. "But if you're not feeling well... I mean, I heard you throw up, are you sure you're all right?"

For a moment, panic flickers across Virgil's expression, so quickly Patton's almost sure he's imagining it.

"It's nothing," Virgil says quickly. "But uh, yeah, I'm not feeling well." Patton tries not to feel hurt at how quickly Virgil seized the excuse.

"We'd still love to have you," Patton says warmly. "You can pick the movie even, if you want!" Virgil hesitates. He can _see_ the naked longing in Virgil's eyes, so why won't he just _accept_ it?

"That uh, that sounds nice, Pat," Virgil says, scratching the back of his neck. "But maybe next time?" He turns it into a question.

"Of course!" Patton says. "Any time you join us, Virgil."

"Uh, okay," Virgil says. "I er- I should let you get back to it." It's a clear dismissal if Patton's ever heard one, and he reluctantly turns to go, waiting until he actually hears Virgil's door snick shut before he starts back down the hallway.

"It's a no go," he announces to Roman and Logan when he enters the living room. Logan makes a disappointed noise. "He's not feeling well."

"I hope that he feels better," Logan says, looking concerned.

"Yeah, me, too," Roman chimes in. "What's wrong with our Emo Nightmare? Did he say?"

"Not really," Patton says, with a frown. "But I heard him throw up before I knocked. Maybe his anxiety is getting bad?"

"If it is, it doesn't seem to be affecting Thomas too badly," Logan says.

Patton shrugs.

"I don't really know," he says. "I hope that he can come and join us next time. It feels like we're missing someone when he's not here!"

"That's because we are," Logan says, his face perfectly deadpan.


	3. tunnel vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self harm in this chapter

As soon as he closes the door, he rushes to his bed, dropping to his knees with a thud that sends pain ricocheting up his body, and scrambling for a particular shoe box. _He heard you,_ his mind yammers at him, this close to mindless panic. _He heard you, he's gonna tell the others, they're gonna laugh at you, how stupid can you get, you didn't even turn on the water, did you, you useless waste of space-_

Shaking hands spill the contents of the shoe box on the floor- a first aid kit, a half-empty packet of kleenex, a separate box of _Nightmare Before Christmas_-themed band-aids- but Virgil only has tear-blurred eyes for one thing. The razor blade now lying in his carpet, silver and ominously glinting. Despite his previous haste, Virgil is careful picking this up- he's cut his fingers too many times and now, he doesn't know how to explain it away.

He stands up for a second, peeling his jeans down his legs one-handed. He doesn't want to get blood on his hoodie.

_Idiot, why'd you pick the razor up first then-_

He flushes with humiliation, setting the razor blade down on the first-aid kit and taking his hoodie off with trembling fingers, revealing bony, scarred arms and a ripped purple shirt that hangs on him. He ignores it, focusing on his similarly scarred thighs. Mouth trembling in concentration, Virgil picks up the razor again, tweezing it between his fingers, as he brings it across his skin in a ragged slash.

He doesn't do it very many times. He has enough control for that. But blood still streaks and smears his skin by the time he's done, rolling down the surface of his thigh in fat red drops. Metal wreaths his nose, making it wrinkle. He grabs a handful of kleenex out of the packet and slams it down, trying to soak it up as best as he can before he tries to bandage it. He can't bleed through his jeans. If he does, the others might notice. It's bad enough Patton heard him puking. They'll never let him live it down if they find out he cuts himself, too.

_They won't accept you anymore. You know that, right? They'll make you go back with the Dark Sides again. Or worse. The subconscious. They'll try to get an Anxiety who's not as fucked up as you are. Not as broken as you. How can you help Thomas? All you do is hurt yourself. What if Thomas felt it? What if _Thomas_ did it? It will be all your fault._

Virgil hiccups, his chest hitching with the incipient flutters of another panic attack. Only the familiar motions of putting on antiseptic cream and bandaging the weeping cuts straggling across his leg keep it at bay. If he strains, he can hear the others, laughing and chattering as the movie queues up.

_See?_ His mind berates him. _They're happy because you aren't there. Imagine what would have happened if you had taken Patton up on his pity offer. That's all it was. Pity. They don't want you there. All you do is bring them down._

Sniffling, Virgil nods in unconscious agreement as he tidies up, yanking his jeans back up and trying not to wince at the sizzle of pain. Chore done, he gingerly curls up on his bed, headphones over his ears to block out the cheery noises from the living room. He knows it's only what he deserves, but it still hurts to hear it.

_You're so fucking pathetic._

He wishes he didn't care. Before, it didn't matter. Not even Patton offered a chance at movie nights before. Meals were different, but Virgil could work with that. It's not like the others cared that much if he didn't show. But then his stupid, over-dramatic ass had to go and mess it all up. Had to try and duck out and _force_ the others to endure his presence. Why couldn't he be satisfied with the status quo?

_Because you're broken._

Virgil can't argue with that. His very presence is a disease. Anxiety is a disorder. Princey's flung that one at him enough times. Logan disagrees that that's _all_ he is, but Virgil can read between the lines. Patton's too much of a bleeding heart either way.

Not for the first time, Virgil wonders if there's anything more permanent than simply ducking out.


	4. not so together breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise

"Breakfast!" Patton calls, rapping on his door the next morning. Virgil stirs, jerking his head up and making his headphones fall to the bed, still trickling music into the bedspread. He fell asleep listening to music, and his neck and back ache for it.

Not to mention his legs. He winces as he clambers out of bed, pulling his hoodie around him and stuffing his feet into his sneakers. He feels like shit, but if he doesn't come down to breakfast, he's afraid that Patton will think he must really be sick and he is _not_ ready to deal with a Morality determined to make him feel better. Not when he knows it's only out of pity.

"Virgil?" Patton asks, concern thick in his voice, and Virgil winces. There it was, right on cue.

"Here," he says hoarsely, yanking open his door. "'m here."

"Are you all right?" Patton asks him, looking him over. "You look a little pale."

"I'm always pale," Virgil mumbles. That seems to shut Patton up for the moment, as he continues down the hall, rapping on Roman's door. Great. Virgil hurries a little more, hoping to get to the kitchen before Princey's awake and ready to face the day. Maybe he'll even get to take a few bites before the fanciful side comes down and promptly ruins any appetite he might possess.

No such luck. The door opens as he passes it, and he can almost _feel_ the censure radiating from Roman's general direction.

"Panic at the Everywhere!" Roman says. "You're up early."

"Yeah, well," Virgil mumbles, with a shrug. "Patton woke me up."

"Family breakfasts are important!" Patton chirps. Virgil doesn't have the heart to tell him that he knows he's not part of Pat's fam-ILY and never will be. The look that flickers across Princey's face seems to do it for him, anyway.

"So what is for breakfast, Pat?" Roman asks, inserting himself between Patton and Virgil. It almost seems accidental, but Virgil knows it's not. It's a line drawn in the sand. A sign that he's not really _with_ them, he just happens to be tagging along. Unwanted. Again.

For a moment, he considers making a break for his room again. Any appetite he might have possessed has vanished, and his throat feels like it's closed up to the size of a pinhole. If he manages to do anything but drink something, he thinks he'll fall down and die of shock.

Logan's already at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. He has a mini planner in front of him, and he's making little notes in it, humming in the back of his throat.

"Teach!" Roman says exuberantly. "Good morning to you!" Virgil does not miss the fact that Roman never wished _him_ the same.

"I always am," Logan says, blinking. "Good morning, Roman, Patton, Virgil." He hesitates slightly before saying Virgil's name, but he does say it. Virgil's face warms as he slumps at the table, fiddling with the ends of his hoodie sleeves. His recent cuts send sharp bolts of pain radiating every time he jiggles his leg.

"Pancakes or waffles?" Patton asks.

"Waffles," Logan says, at the same time that Roman says "Pancakes!" Everyone turns to look at Virgil.

"Virgil?" Patton asks softly. "What would _you_ like?"

"Uh, I-" Virgil freezes. "Wh- whatever," he finally manages to squeeze out of his painfully tight throat. "You- you choose, Pat."

"You have not chosen before," Logan comments, with a slight frown. "I believe that it is more than time for you to have a turn." A disgruntled look crosses Roman's face, but he nods anyway.

"I- I really don't care," Virgil stammers. He feels like his face is on fire.

"Okay, Virgil," Patton says. Is that disappointment in his voice? Virgil can't tell. "I'll just make both! Then you don't have to choose."

"Sounds uh, sounds good," he agrees hoarsely.

"Patton told us that you were ill last night," Logan says. Panic claws at his throat for one brief, heart-stopping moment before he gets control of it. "Are you feeling all right this morning?"

"Fine," Virgil croaks, in a lie so blatant, it's a miracle he doesn't catch a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye. "I feel fine."

"You'll eat breakfast then," Logan says. It isn't a question. Virgil swallows hard and nods.

He already wants to disappear.


	5. tiptoeing to conclusions

If Logan were prone to admitting emotion, he has to confess he would feel alarm at just how pale Virgil's face has become. The anxious side looks like he's a few gasping breaths from completely passing out, and Logan has no idea why. Was he still feeling unwell? If so, why would he not simply tell them? Patton would be more than willing to make up some breakfast foods much gentler for an upset stomach, and if Patton was unsure what to make, Logan himself would assist.

But if Logan is honest with himself, this is not the first time Virgil has looked so queasy at a plate of food, breakfast or not. He has noticed it before, noticed the hesitation before Virgil's fingers close around the fork or spoon, noticed the tremble behind Virgil's hands as he lifts a bite to his lips.

It paints an unsettling picture, and one that Logan doesn't want to think about too closely.

But he has a feeling (ha!) that he must, if Virgil is to be helped.

Patton sets a plate down in front of Virgil. It has one waffle and one pancake on it, glistening with syrup. It looks picture perfect, like something you might find in a food-oriented magazine.

Virgil's staring at it like the golden globules of syrup might as well be poison.

"Virgil?" Logan questions, attempting to gentle his voice. He can tell by the jolt that runs through Virgil's shoulders that he has been unsuccessful. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Virgil squeaks out. It sounds nearly as if he's been strangled. "No, 'm fine." Virgil cuts off a small, neat bite off the waffle and places it into his mouth. Mission complete.

So why does Logan feel like it's only begun?

Patton hands him his own plate, heaped with blueberry-covered waffles, and Logan sighs in unconscious pleasure. He does enjoy a good waffle, particularly with fruit. The fruit makes him feel like it's a little healthier, although he knows it doesn't really have _that_ much of an impact.

"So what is on the agenda for today?" Roman asks, enthusiastically tucking into his pancakes as Patton returns to the table. He, too, has decided to go with half waffle and half pancake for breakfast. The quick hitch of breath next to him tells him that the anxious side has noticed.

"We need to go over video ideas," Logan answers. "Preferably with all of us. I know Thomas would value each of our input."

"Would he?" Roman asks skeptically. Logan fights the urge to glare at the creative side. Can't he see what's right there, almost literally under his nose? His words have struck Virgil like a physical blow and now Anxiety is scrunched up in his chair, picking at his waffle (he has studiously left the pancake alone).

"Yes," Logan says, his tone glacial. "All of us have provided valuable contributions in the past. There is no logical reason why that trend should not continue."

"Exactly!" Patton pipes up. His eyebrows are scrunched together in what looks like anger at Roman.

"I dunno," Virgil mumbles into his breakfast. "Maybe you guys should go ahead without me."

"Why?" Logan persists. Virgil shrugs. Logan bites back a frown. Surely it is simply because the other side is wearing such an oversized hoodie, but for a moment, he could have sworn that Virgil is much thinner than the rest of them. They all tend to follow Thomas's general body, with a few tweaks. Roman is more muscular, thanks to his adventures in the Imagination, for instance, and Logan is a little thinner and paler. But Virgil-

Well, perhaps it is a side effect of his function. Logan can think of many reasons why the embodiment of fight or flight would be thin.

Concern still lingers as breakfast continues, and when Virgil is done, dumping his plate in the sink and disappearing into his room, Logan arches an eyebrow in Patton's direction.

Perhaps it is time the two of them had a talk about Anxiety.


End file.
